If a Job's worth doing
One good thing about the steady precipitation is that it keeps the EBC* away so that Brian doesn't have to fight him at 5am every morning through the cat flap. A lousy night's sleep, nevertheless, with unpleasant dreams. I woke to a dark day in flaming June, where it was either raining or just about to rain. Flooding in nearby towns. Lorraine up early and back to the grindstone.
When I am not feeling like Noah, I am feeling like Job. Recovering from migraine but now mysteriously have diarrhoea. On the plus side can walk about again, and I am off pain killers, which at least allows me to reach the toilet with alacrity. Betty at home superglued to the gold sofa with a wretched cold, after being sent home from the job she just got working in the, um, cupcake industry.
Eyes hurt looking at screen too long, so I listened to my unabridged Moby Dick audiobook in the afternoon. I'd read most of it before, but never finished it despite really enjoying it. I am righting this wrong. It is a cracking read.
Been thinking about Ray Bradbury lots over the days since his death. I loved his stories when I read them in my teens. He was very much at the magical realism end of the SF spectrum, and I think for me was a bridge into all kinds of other writing. I loved his lyricism, and his stories made me want to live in the Mid-West of the US, wear things called sneakers and sprint off into the magic of vast empty landscapes. He was an absolute master of short stories, and I loved Something Wicked This Way Comes particularly among his novels.
Watched England play to an uninspiring draw with France in the Euros, cooked for a Lorraine and Betty in the evening, and generally kept out of trouble. Interesting bit to the Have I got news for you, comedy tonight about a cat which had been turned into a working helicopter by its owner on its death.
*evil black cat.
Below Job's tormentors by William Blake.
When I am not feeling like Noah, I am feeling like Job. Recovering from migraine but now mysteriously have diarrhoea. On the plus side can walk about again, and I am off pain killers, which at least allows me to reach the toilet with alacrity. Betty at home superglued to the gold sofa with a wretched cold, after being sent home from the job she just got working in the, um, cupcake industry.
Eyes hurt looking at screen too long, so I listened to my unabridged Moby Dick audiobook in the afternoon. I'd read most of it before, but never finished it despite really enjoying it. I am righting this wrong. It is a cracking read.
Been thinking about Ray Bradbury lots over the days since his death. I loved his stories when I read them in my teens. He was very much at the magical realism end of the SF spectrum, and I think for me was a bridge into all kinds of other writing. I loved his lyricism, and his stories made me want to live in the Mid-West of the US, wear things called sneakers and sprint off into the magic of vast empty landscapes. He was an absolute master of short stories, and I loved Something Wicked This Way Comes particularly among his novels.
Watched England play to an uninspiring draw with France in the Euros, cooked for a Lorraine and Betty in the evening, and generally kept out of trouble. Interesting bit to the Have I got news for you, comedy tonight about a cat which had been turned into a working helicopter by its owner on its death.
*evil black cat.
Below Job's tormentors by William Blake.
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